Guru Purnima (Huh?)

Sri K. Pattabhi Jois

This past Friday was Guru Purnima. If you know what that is, without Googling it on Bing, you win the yet-to-be-determined lavish prize package, second only to those handed out to Oscar nominees. I didn’t have a clue what it was until Doc. B. got me into Mysore yoga classes 6 weeks ago. And if you know what Mysore is, without Googling it on Yahoo, you win the other yet-to-be-determined lavish prize package, second only to the one handed out to those who know what Guru Purnima is.

“Guru” means remover of darkness and ignorance – or teacher. “Purnima” means full moon. So no, Guru Purnima is not an occasion to moon your yoga teacher. It’s actually a specific day each year that coincides with a full moon in June or July, on which students give thanks to their teacher(s).

“Mysore” is a type of Ashtanga yoga, taught in the style of Sri K. Pattabhi Jois from Mysore, India. It’s a group yoga class, but students show up when they want and practice their own postures at their own pace. The teacher is there to help students, individually, by showing them new postures, providing verbal instructions and giving physical adjustments. And let’s just get the pun out of the way; when people are done with the practice, it’s not uncommon for them to proclaim “boy am Mysore.”

Doc. B. has been doing this practice every morning at 6:00 am for over two years. She loves it and kept insisting that I would too…that it would appeal to my sense of routine (OCD) and that I would love the individual attention (in other yoga classes, I hated it when the instructor couldn’t remember my name after I’d been attending classes for months).

But here's the thing, I just wasn’t sure I was ready to give up my beloved gym membership. I mean really, what would I do if I couldn’t hop on the elliptical trainer at 5:30 am sharp, set it at level 6, and let CNN blare into my ear buds for at least a 30 minute workout with a few sips of coffee in between wipes of my brow. I’d been doing that, among other slightly varied workouts, since my favorite Decatur gym opened over 5 years ago. I was there with my people; the same faces every morning for years. We knew who was going to which machine, how long they’d be on it, and where they were headed next. And we knew that certain gym employees would open the building before 5:30 and others would wait until exactly opening time to unlock the front doors.

Well, the gym membership is on hold. After much Temple Grandin livestock nudging, not to be confused with slaughterhouse cattle prodding, Doc. B. talked me into it. She got the okay from her teachers (Todd Roderick and Stephanie Kohler of Ashtanga Yoga Atlanta) to let me show up for class on Memorial Day 2011.  This was predicted to be a day on which there might be a lighter turn out of students, and is now a day that will forever be etch-a-sketched by Picasso on my brain.

Doc. B and I arrived at 6:00 am with my bike on the back of the Subaru. I learned my first few postures, laid down into savasana (corpse pose), and peddled the 4 miles home. Meanwhile, Doc. B. finished her own practice and drove home like always – no disruption to her practice - except for my incessant questions like: Where do I put my mat? Am I going to be in somebody’s spot? Where do I sign in? Where do I put my purse? Do I need a towel? You always take a towel so I bet I need a towel? Should I have coffee before I practice or wait until after?

So after all that hoopla and angst, six weeks later I’m still a Mysore newbie and loving it. And after six weeks, I have some Guru Purnima to be celebrating. Thanks to my new teachers, Todd and Stephanie, for:

• Remembering my name as of day one.

• Still adjusting my postures even when I’m perspiring so much that my pretty purple Manduka yoga mat and my off-brand/non-Lululemon fake yoga clothes are completely soaked from the sweat dripping out of my second chin, third eye, third arm and third leg.

• Encouraging five-count ujjayi breathing (Darth Vader breathing) so much so that I find myself doing it as I walk to MARTA, while I’m on MARTA, as I sit at my desk at work, while I'm in the bathtub and when checking status updates on Facebook.

• Making me realize that Kiran Carrie Chetry and Robin Meade still go on with their lives even without me tuning in all of the TVs at the gym to CNN. Did you know that Kiran means “ray of light” in Sanskrit?

• Telling me things like “you’d look great in that posture if you were an 80 year old with arthritis” (shout out to Stephanie on this one!). It puts things in perspective for this chunky soon to be 47 year old with love handles – it’s all relative.

• Not judging me as I reinforce the new postures you taught me by watching Mysore videos on YouTube while drinking wine. Oh wait, you don’t know that I do that.

• Not chastising me if I cheat on a posture when I think you’re not looking. Oh wait, you don’t know that I do that either - well, yes, you probably do. And yes, I know, I’m only hurting my own practice by doing that – I’m working on it!

• Giving me so much encouragement, correction, smiles, support and no-no-no’s before 7:30 am that anything crappy that happens at work just really doesn’t even matter. NOTE: I still reserve the right to complain about the crap at work though or it wouldn’t be any fun.

To my new teachers Todd and Stephanie, and the many I’ve had throughout my life (Sealpops included if you’re out there), may you be uplifted spiritually as you have uplifted me.

P.S. Thank God for moon days and Epsom salts!

P.P.S. The person doing savasana in the background of this photo is doing a really good job!  http://www.flickr.com/photos/ashtangayogaatlanta/5877595292/

Birthday Card to Dad

The Grandmothers

Slumber Party!

Snow Monsters

Tub Fishing



Every year when it hits July, I think of those lucky numbers, 7 and 11, today’s date. My dad was born on 7/11, so I’d say they are lucky for at least me, my siblings, my nieces and my nephews. I’ll let my mom decide for herself if those are her lucky numbers but I suspect that they’re in her top three.

It’s always hard to pick out a birthday card for my dad. I wander through the aisles at CVS hoping something will jump out at me, but that just didn’t happen this year. So I sifted through the cards we have here at home for just such occasions. Somehow Doc. B.’s pack of generic cards from the Insight Meditation Society in Massachusetts just didn’t fit the bill. Stacks of colorful meditation cushions, seated buddahs and buildings with “Metta” inscriptions above the entrances wouldn’t suffice. There was also a random anniversary card that said “I’m so happy to be sharing life with you”. I guess dad shared his life with me but I would have had to sharpie out the “happy anniversary” part of the card – tacky but frugal – so Dad might have gone for this. Plus, perhaps Doc. B. was saving this card for me – after all, it is our 10/14 year anniversary in October (10 years since ceremony and 14 years since we met).

Eventually I found the last of a box of cards I’ve had since the early 90’s – cards with cats on the cover. There was one that looked like a cat we had when I was growing up – Binky the Siamese mix. That would have to do. I wrote my special note on the inside, sealed up the envelope, placed multiple heart stickers all over the envelope, stamped it and sent it on his way.

Dad is 71 today. And that card just doesn’t seem like enough. Sure, I talked to him on the phone, but I’d so much rather see him in person. But alas, I’m the one that moved to Atlanta. When I called him, he was at my sister’s house. He’d had a great day with my mom and three of their five grandchildren. They had meatball sandwiches for lunch and were building forts and haunted houses when I called. Just like when we were kids.

So here are some pictures from those kid days. My brother and me with our grandmothers. My two sisters having a big old slumber party. My brother and I playing in the snow. And three of us kids fishing from the bathtub. Brings back good memories, huh?

xxxooo Dad!